


The Art of Acting

by cereal_whore



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Bad Puns, Depression, Dissociation, Emotions, M/M, Panic Attacks, REALLY BAD PICK-UP LINES, Self-Denial, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, abusive use towards nachos, do I know what im doing, even worse puns, idek if there will be any romance but eh, if it can become a meme, it can become a tag dammit, kenma has a habit of not eating for three days straight to finish games, kuroo has no idea what hes doing in life and im convinced all of us relate on a spiritual level, no!, that should become a normal tag, whoops my hand slipped
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal_whore/pseuds/cereal_whore
Summary: Kuroo isn't really sure when he stopped being 'Kuroo'.





	The Art of Acting

**Author's Note:**

> Amazing time for me to say: I don't know what the hell I'm writing about. I don't know if it's accurate, and I don't really know if this is even real.  
> And it's not a vent thing either.  
> I mean. It is.  
> I guess.  
> I typically feel emotionally dissociated from things. and stuff. And the eating thing is a problem too, but for me it's different. I don't know man.  
> Let's just see where this takes us and I hope I don't end up doing weird shit here :^)

He wasn't depressed.

And it wasn't self-denial. By this point, Kuroo doesn't have any motivation to bother lying to himself over things that scarily leave him insouciant towards, when such things around a year ago he would've found improbable and a threat to his way of life.

Stating that his sudden lack of effort to do simple tasks is 'depression', is dumb.

Because he doesn't have it.

_(Because I don't deserve to compare my feelings to other people who actually have depression and worse than I do)_

_"Tetsu?"_

Kuroo jerks at the call, despite the gentle and hesitant timbre of the voice echoing through his room. His room is moderately sized, perhaps even small, but is always seemingly vast and echoing with loneliness. Too big for him to want to walk through such a deserted land to even fetch clothes or wash his face. His room doesn't even feel comforting even though it's considered the only place where he feels as if he can properly breathe, since in public, for some strange reason he feels judged for intaking another breath that keeps his heart chopping anxiously in its rapid pace. His room is decorated with dust and musty clothes that he should really toss into the laundry, but once again, can't find effort to put into his self hygiene to bother.

_(This isn't depression. This is you just whining. Being lazy, procrastinating. Stop dramatizing your life over you being a snotty pain in the ass)_

His room, regardless of being littered with sentimental trinkets, as well as individuality that musk his room, has no more personal values or atmosphere anymore. It's withering. His personality is withering, thus contaminating any environment it affects. He wants other people. So he could leech off of an artificial sense of motivation they emit, so that at least his lonely attitude can be overwhelmed by theirs until he can't fight and prevent it from intoxicating him.

It's a shame how his own fucking bedroom feels dead and cold, despite his increasing visits of just burrowing into his bed and avoiding reality.

He didn't mean to waste another day glancing at his phone tiredly, scrolling through memes that just bleed into one another as smears of colors, his eyes strained from staring at his accusingly bright screen in his unlit room. He was tired. The moment he finished volleyball club, he mockingly dissuaded Lev's persisting gripes of him joining the rest of the team on visiting their favorite ramen shop, and went home with Kenma. His dulling brain that's currently rivaling a throbbing pulse that damn won't die from just a few painkillers, couldn't create any topic at that time to broach with Kenma when they both walked home since they're mutually attached to one another so when one left the other did (he felt less guilty when he knew Kenma wouldn't really want to go anyways). And Kenma hadn't noticed Kuroo's fading character as he just fiddled on his PSP.

When he finally got home and parted with Kenma, he automatically relished in stripping down to his boxers and letting his familiar pawprint-patterned bedsheets to sooth his bare skin as he wallowed with his headaches.

And then his fatigue, still grinding down on his mind, sapping his mental response, and already progressing from his constant physical exertion over a couple spikes during practice despite the fact he used to be able to easily last through hours of volleyball while just playing games with his friends-

He still stayed awake. He wanted to desperately sleep.

God.

He can't remember the last night he wasn't just drifting dangerously between the borders of unconsciousness-

_(Don't pity yourself. You're the one who chose to just stay on his phone and be useless throughout the rest of the afternoon when you could've done work or slept, it was your choice)_

And he also can't recall the last time he ate a proper meal.

Even during dinners, his father barely finding time or energy to cook meals for both of them as he worked from home, and with his mother arriving late as she returns from her grueling hours at the courthouse, it's not as if he has to divert any attention from him when it came to eating habits. His parents were practically condoning his eating habits with their own.

_"Tetsu!"_

At the honed sharpness of the previously gentle croons, Kuroo finally removes himself from his blankets, gingerly exposing himself to the chilliness that settles in his room due to his absolute idiocy of refusing to shut his room windows. "I'm coming." He croaks, his voice raw from lack of use, a sensation he's becoming more familiar with.

And he supposes, such a thing should worry him.

It doesn't.

And that's what worries him the most.

* * *

"What's this?"

Kuroo blinks blearily, almost unable to distinguish his mother's hiss from her placid voice, as he connects her anger with the failing grade marking his recently handed back test in red.  _Ah_. Oddly enough, Kuroo cannot find a sense of disgust at its sight, and as he slowly identifies the disappointment lining his mothers' wrinkles upon her handsome visage, he still cannot straighten his spine, unable to break out of his slouch,  _unable to break out of his uncaring mind state-_

"You're going to college next year!"

_(So what)_

"What's going on? This is the fourth bad grade you received these past couple months!"

_(I don't care)_

"Don't you worry about your future!" Her voice cracks hysterics, distorting her questions into screams, as her eyes slit in a predatory manner at the sight of the unwavering stare of her son. And honestly, something about his deaden eyes, the way that he's no longer flushing, no longer wincing at the mere example of her anger, no longer self-critical in a healthy sense that could help himself improve-

She doesn't know what to do. It unnerved her. So she could only just scream some more, as Tetsurou remains almost passively deaf, his eyes glazing over with a glossy feel that sends her hackles bristling from irritation, wondering if this is a form of late rebellion; but the slack expression also causes glaciers to melt in the pit of her stomach, spreading the iciness, as if the fiery compassion that used to spark within Tetsurou has licked into a forest fire of life within her, but extinguished the portion of it from him.

"Tetsu...."

"I'm sorry." He simply says. And that's when her bones click stiffly, as the robotic statement warped with almost a sinister undertone of annoyance spits out between his lips.

"Is something wrong in school?"

"No."

"Have you been eating well?"

"Yes."

"You seem skinnier." She observes skeptically at his gaunt visage. His cheekbones and jawline, more prominent yet his skin elastic and sagging slightly around his sunken eyes and newly hollowed cheeks. "You're not taking drugs right?" And while he shook his head, it still wasn't the exact response she wanted. She wanted Tetsurou to flinch straight out of this vapid atmosphere that's shrouding his emotions and obscuring who really was  _Tetsurou_. But the boy didn't even react to her forward and blunt accusation.

Which wasn't right. Tetsurou was explosively responsive, happy, and reactive to everything.

Tetsurou was a good kid.

He helped elderly across the street.

Just months ago when she asked if there was a girl in his life he automatically flushed and stuttered a 'no'. And when she asked if there was a _boy_ in his life he nearly wilted from humiliation and slight fear of nonacceptance as she practically confirmed her assumptions on his sexuality. [It ended up all okay in the end since she apologized for pressuring and possibly making him uncomfortable and they ate five pints of ice cream in total with her her husband as they watched  _Mean Girls_ (that movie gave her a heart attack when she realized what it was really about].

When (despite her husband's pleas to leave their poor son alone) she asked if he ever done anything particularly inappropriate that would result in her forcing his dad to give him a lecture on safe sex as well as her whacking him a couple times for tarnishing their family name, Tetsurou nearly fell of his chair, red and embarrassed, and that's when she knew that he'll probably be fine without her constant eye and she doesn't have to worry about him sleeping around and not paying attention to grades and college, considering how he clearly rarely ever thought of it.

Yet he doesn't even seem to be listening to her. 

His responses stunted and limited. 

And the grandest movement from Kuroo is what caused his loudest, which is just scraping his chair back as he stands up, before politely nodding at his mother and quietly padding back upstairs.

She stares hopelessly at the back of the crushing persona of her son.

* * *

 

_(God, I am so messed up)_

Amused, Kuroo contemplates if others think similarly to him. _(You're fucked up. Selfish. Deranged. Particularly ungrateful and unrefined too, when it comes to how you treat your parents)._ He disregards Kenma's blatant gaze fixated sharply on him as he winks at Lev, who's trying to shove fifty straws into his mouth at once. 

He's not depressed.

He still finds happiness daily among his peers. He finds himself enjoying himself as he tangles himself with others, especially whenever he's in an exuberant and loud environment. Or anymore not at home.

For a flickering second, he wonders if his father cares about him.

 _(Of course he does. The fuck? It's not his fault he doesn't see you drowning right now._ You don't even notice you're drowning-

_[i'm not drowning]_

_(and you expect him to respond? That's pretty attention-seeking.)_

He wonders if he's that much of a disappointment to his mother.

 _(And you could easily fix it. What's your problem? When you stared at the mirror for two hours doing nothing? As your imagination skews the persona you constantly wear?_ You're faking it. You're faking it. That's disgusting, the way that you force yourself to act like nothing's wrong when in reality- _face it-_ you want to die. _And you don't even have a reason to not want to live, the hell is wrong with you? Others have it much worse and you're willing to feel so vulnerable and exposed due to prolonged feelings of sadness? You have to mature._ You have to grow up.  _The longer you stare the more the orchid blossoms underneath your eyes. The longer you glare the more the ribs steadily beat against your pale chest. The longer you just look and don't do anything about it, the more your eyes are dead. What the fuck is your problem? It's not as if there's anything wrong with you. You're just making problems for yourself to garner attention, it's not as if you don't have energy to do shit._ You just don't want to)

Bokuto's wheeze as he practically hacks out all the straws plunges deep into Kuroo's swirling thoughts, dragging him out before Kuroo could finally feel, could finally comprehend how fucking deep he's sunken into them. He's shaken Kuroo before he could possibly be given a self-analysis on how he doesn't hang out with his friends anymore; on how he doesn't even charge his phone and when he still had, didn't even bother to enter social media or respond to texts; his chance to see how Kenma is no longer constantly by his side throughout the day or lounging at his house or vice-versa is now stolen; he won't notice how his teammates' eyes flicker to one another as their captain seeming daze off in the middle of practice as his lithe body, that seemingly gotten skinnier over strikingly few weeks. 

Maybe he would've noticed how it's not in his head. But he didn't, and unfortunately, the sliver of doing so, as his mental state momentarily cleared for seconds, seals back as his thoughts cloud and Bokuto's call from another alternate plane of reality blur with the one he feels constantly stranded on in his mind. This effectively destabilizes his mentality once more, as his mind set is profusely rattled to the point where he cannot balance himself.

He subconsciously clasps his hand on Bokuto's back, lacking his typical empathy, as his brain runs off with all his consideration of things in general to a different world. A world full of screams, harsh whispers, and grating sneers that meld together into one horrendous batch of poison to feed himself once more when he's alone with all the ingredients in his room.

He doesn't see how the others stare at him right now. He doesn't even hear the sudden decrescendo of excitement from the multiple volleyball teams celebrating at the BBQ. 

He doesn't notice how some visibly recoil at the sight of his once handsome, endearingly adorable, freckled and Adonis-kissed skin that ashen to the remains of ground bones. Their whispers are greedily snatched across even people outside of the team at the sudden awkwardness that seemingly drags down on Kuroo's attitude. Because it's still there. His smirk, his flirtatious but always respectful conversations, the way that he chuckles and converses with others with an aura of companionship. But there's the obvious disassociation. As if he doesn't want to be there. As if he's not really there, perhaps not even willingly or self-consciously so. 

He thinks he's just okay.

He's ensnared in the unforeseen alterations of his hormones, thoughts, and mental state, all which he can no longer squirm and fight his way free. He doesn't think he's necessarily trapped. 

He thinks he can just get away. That this will just go away. 

"Look, this is so good." Bokuto purrs, whining at the sight of the steak he snitched from Karasuno's grill, and the peppery aroma wafts upwards. He clearly recovered quite quickly from choking on multiple straws lodged into his airway at once. And as Bokuto sniffs in pleasure, Kuroo recoils, his tongue cringing and his dry throat and dehydrated state rejecting even the mere scent of meat. "Have some!"

"N-no Bo not now I-"

"Just eat this, you can have your grilled mackerel later, here!"

And as Bokuto shoves the flimsy plate over at the boy with the mussed bedhead, Kuroo, who already overworked himself to the point where he could barely keep his legs from buckling, who ignored the physical and warning pain with the fear and emotions of his mind, who refused to eat to the point where his stomach practically suctions inwards at the smell of it, who doesn't hydrate, wash or mentally prepare himself either, vomits.

Water and clumps of whatever food he's eaten over the past day clawed up his raw throat, and splatters across the grass.

_(Pathetic)_

And Kuroo, through a haze of whining, tears, and numerous and repeated apologies that he barely was conscious of doing as people rushed to his swaying body, locked away his grimace, his pain, and blinked away his tears.

"I'm fine, I must've eaten something bad." He smirks mirthlessly.  _(And he believes it himself)_

 _Because Kuroo Tetsurou,_ does not have a problem.

 _(Problems are meant for people who are suffering, who are actually going through problems. If that was happening to you, then wouldn't others try and help you? Surely they'd notice you if you were truly in pain. So either you're just being an immature and pathetic mess, or_ your friends just don't care enough about you)

And Kuroo wants to vomit again.

* * *

He didn't have a problem.

_(Hydrogen, Carbon_ _, Uranium)_

"Kuroo, what the hell is your problem?" Yaku growls _(I_ don't _have a problem)_ , frustration evident upon his cross features. Shakily, Kuroo etches a wavering smile onto his face, the wobbling carves indenting his face and making it almost feel contorted and deformed with its uneven and hesitant lines. Thankfully, though it's cutting and invasive on his sagging face, it's clearly doing enough to diminish any worry from Yaku as the shorter libero just instigates his typical scoff at the sight of it. "You've been off these past couple weeks!"

_(Past couple months. Goddammit. You're just dragging down the rest of the team, you don't even like volleyball anymore. If you don't even like it, don't even be on the team and stop being a waste)_

_("Pay attention!")_ Kuroo stiffens slightly, his eyes murkily drifting across the court that his mind is already blurring out in his mind. Which reality was that from? Was this just his typical whisper that his demons produced  _(not your demons, your conscience, Kuroo. We're you, you already know all this shit you're just stuck in pathetic denial)_ or was this someone from his team who actually directed it at him? He can't tell. 

_(You're so fucked up that you don't even know where you are half the time. Do you even know what's real or not?_ _You can't even identify time at some moments.)_

The withering whisper that fucks his mind leaves him tired and restless, forcing himself to respire in even shallower hiccups of breaths than usual. But he doesn't feel a sense of indignation at such a thought he supposes he would've considered offensive before. Just pitiful acceptance. Because it's true. As he twirls the spherical ball in his hands, he doesn't even attempt to find any connection with its sport anymore. He doesn't bother to, he doesn't feel the need to. The same way he felt towards his once joking [and envied by his peers] relationship with his teachers, now strained by his quiet demeanor that's almost condescending and awkward as they echo their distaste towards his crumpling grades.

They're falling faster than his mental state.

"Kuroo-"

The sounds surrounding him blur together with his vision, almost as if those perceptions of this reality are now nothing more than trash, not worthy to be acknowledged by his current state of floating. 

"-uroo!"

And vaguely, his muscles loosen, as he allows the soothing milkiness of freedom bathe him, as his association with reality plunge into inky shards of depression.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> it gets worse from here don't worry.


End file.
